Mission Flats

46

Franny Boyle saw me at the door of his office and tried to manufacture a little of his old muscular presence. He pressed his head down into that thick, bullfrog neck and tightened his pecs. ‘What’s going on, Opie? You look real serious.’ But Franny’s act was not convincing anymore. For all his puffing, he seemed to be shrinking before my eyes. He was seated behind an enormous oak desk, an aircraft carrier of a desk, and its size diminished him further.

‘Franny, we need to talk.’

‘Oh man, this is serious. Nothing good ever comes after “we have to talk.” Last time someone told me “we have to talk,” I wound up divorced.’ Franny gave me a wiseguy smirk. It was an invitation to smirk along with him, which I declined.

I closed the door behind me.

‘Where’s the old man? Kelly?’

‘He’s outside. I thought we’d just talk, you and me.’

‘You gonna read me my rights?’

‘You need to hear them, Franny?’

He pursed his lips, disappointed he could not jolly me out of my solemn tone. ‘Well, sit down at least.’ He pointed to a chair that was covered with files. ‘Just throw that shit on the floor.’

‘That’s alright, Franny. I’m good here.’

Seated in his desk chair, he laced his hands on top of his bald head, flaunting two crescent moons in his armpits.

‘Franny, I’m not going to bullshit you. Kelly and I just came from the Records Room at Berkeley Street. We were looking through the Trudell file. We know Artie Trudell came to you with some kind of problem.’

‘Lots of cops used to come to me with problems. I was the only lawyer a lot of them knew — personally knew, I mean. People give lawyers too much credit. They figure we can answer questions about any kind of problem. I’ve had cops come to me with questions about divorces, real-estate closings-’

‘Franny, this wasn’t about a real-estate closing.’

‘No? How do you know?’

‘Wild guess.’

‘So what do you think it was about, hotshot?’

‘Frank Fasulo.’

Franny smiled. ‘Frank Fasulo?’

‘That’s right.’

A poker player who reveals the value of his hand with a gesture has what is called a tell. Franny Boyle, I could see, had a tell: to mask his concern, he smiled too quickly and too much.

‘Where’d you come up with Frank Fasulo?’ Franny said.

‘I got a tip.’

‘You got a tip? From who?’

I thought about naming Braxton. I had promised Franny I would not bullshit him. But then, I’d made other promises too.

‘Let’s say I got it from Raul.’

‘No, really. Who?’

‘I can’t tell you that, Franny.’

‘Jesus, you certainly learn fast. Who the hell are you getting tips from? Not Gittens, I know that.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Gittens usually plays it close, and he doesn’t know you well enough. No, my guess is it must be Ms Kelly. I hear you and Princess Caroline are getting… close.’

He studied me, looking for a tell of my own.

‘Franny, before he died, Artie Trudell came to you with a problem. We know he did because he told Julio Vega. Vega said he was upset, he “wasn’t right.” I’m asking you: What was Trudell so worried about?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know meaning you don’t remember? Or you don’t know meaning it didn’t happen?’

‘I don’t know meaning I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Franny, do you want a lawyer?’

‘I am a lawyer.’

‘Then cut the shit and answer me! What was Artie Trudell so afraid of?’

‘I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and maybe I don’t like what you’re suggesting-’

‘Sit down, Franny’

‘This is my office.’

I knocked him once in the shoulder then again, hard, in the chest. He fell into the desk chair with a clatter. He pushed himself back up, and I knocked him down again.

Kelly opened the door. He glanced at me standing over Boyle, who was sprawled awkwardly in his chair. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I thought there might be a problem.’ He disappeared again.

‘You don’t like what I’m suggesting, Franny? Let me fill in the blanks so you know exactly what I’m suggesting. I don’t think Artie Trudell came to you for a real-estate closing because I don’t think you know shit from pound cake about real-estate closings. I think he came to you because you’re a DA, and the only reason to go to a DA is to report a crime.’

‘What crime?’

‘I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out.’

‘Yeah? How are you going to do that?’

‘For starters, I’m going to talk to Julio Vega. Whatever Trudell knew, Vega knew. They were partners, remember?’

‘Vega’s a wing nut. The whole town knows it.’

‘At least he’s not crooked.’

This brought a glare. ‘Kid, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Maybe. But I know Trudell had information about Frank Fasulo and that cop who got killed at the Kilmarnock, and about the red-door cocaine and Raul. Trudell had all this information and he brought it to you because he thought you’d do something about it. He trusted you; he thought you’d do your job. But you didn’t do your job, at least not fast enough, and Trudell got killed. And I think Danziger figured it all out.’

Boyle smiled. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘Yeah, that’s what I think. And I think when it all comes out, everybody’s going to know the whole thing wasn’t Vega’s fault.’

He smiled and smiled.

The door opened again. This time it was Gittens. He took in the scene — which at the moment had me jabbing my index finger toward Boyle’s nose — and his eyebrows rose as if it were all a mild but not unpleasant surprise.

‘Everything alright in here?’

‘Yeah. Franny and I were just talking.’

Gittens studied us, then said, ‘Lowery wants to see you, Ben.’